


You Can't Make a Circle Without Pi(e)

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Men in Black (Movies), Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Breakfast Club (1985), The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bruce Broke Harlem, Clone Sex, Crossdressing, Crossover, Cunnilingus, Diplomacy Fail, Father-Son Relationship, Interviews, Massage, Masturbation, Multi, Pegging, Pie, Sam and Dean Tied Up in a Basement...Again, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism, Werewolf Registry, accidental wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:57:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of multifandom, multipairing prompt fills, united by the deliciousness of pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If Two Are (MCU/MiB)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/gifts), [the_wordbutler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/gifts), [paperdollkisses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdollkisses/gifts), [Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/gifts), [Holosweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holosweet/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> raiining said:
>
>> Oh oh oh…. I want more MiB/MAoS crossover goodness!! Maybe trying to repair the relationship? an offering of baked goods? something/anything! *g*
> 
> This is part of the [Working Around It](http://archiveofourown.org/series/66003) 'verse. There’s another actual story planned for this ‘verse, and I’m always glad to add bits and bobs to it, because I love these guys’ interactions so much. Title refers to the Benjamin Franklin quote, “Three may keep a Secret, if two of them are dead.” Or, in this case, if two _aren't_ Clint and Jay. 

Phil Coulson could wrest life from the jaws of death, triumph from catastrophic missions, lifelong loyalty from people who thought themselves incapable of it. But he could not wring an attractive caramel-apple pie from his maternal grandmother’s recipe.

"No one’s going to care what it looks like," Clint insisted, eager to wipe the scowl from his husband’s face. "Kay’ll be too busy appreciating the passive-aggressive burn that is you baking him one of his mother-in-law’s pies. And me and Jay’ll eat anything. We don’t care how it looks, long’s it tastes good." He swiped his finger through a bubble of filling that had exploded through the top of the crust and popped it into his mouth. "And this is delicious.”

Phil smiled and pulled Clint’s finger from his mouth, kissing him softly. “Thank you.”

When the knock came, Phil went into a tightly controlled frenzy that Clint found adorable. “All right,” Phil said, crossing the kitchen to let their guests in. Just outside the kitchen, he paused with an echo of a frown. “How did you know that about Jay?”

Clint shrugged, trying not to look like a man coaxing more filling out of a pie. “Just a guess. Something your dad said; I think I remind him of Jay sometimes.”

Which was what was on Phil’s mind when he opened the door.

Phil and Kay had gotten together often since Phil and Clint got back from their honeymoon. Clint had joined them a few times. But important firsts were happening tonight: Kay’s first time coming to their home, their first meeting with the infamous Jay. Phil might have been pinning a few (impossibly?) high expectations on the night. So he was keeping an eagle eye on everything. He watched the MiB agents’ gazes move around the apartment. He watched his husband and father greet each other, as usual, with overwrought solemnity (he thought it had something to do with how they’d first met, a story they wouldn’t tell him). And then he watched Agent J pull Clint into a strangely cozy bro-hug.

Kay rolled his eyes. “He gets handsy,” he told Phil. “Dontcha, slick?” He flicked Jay behind the ear; Jay flinched and let go of Clint, muttering something about the worms switching Kay to decaf. Then he was hugging Phil, instead, and Phil was too busy trying not to flinch to consider whether it was strange.

*

What did you call something so successful you start to suspect it’s not successful at all?

Everyone getting along had been one of Phil’s highest priorities. But how were Clint and Jay getting along _so well_?

Clint could charm damn near any stranger. But in intimate settings where personal connections mattered, he moved cautiously. His affection took a long time to gain, and his trust longer. Even Natasha had had to work for them.

So why did he seem to have given Jay both after knowing him for two hours? They talked like old cronies and traded jibes like brothers. A less paranoid man would’ve basked in his victory. Phil wondered what he’d missed.

Of course it happened over pie—which, as Clint promised, everyone was devouring with gusto. In Jay’s case, obscene noises were involved. “Damn, this is good.” He jabbed his fork toward Kay. “You been holding out on me.”

Kay shook his head. “Phil got his baking skills from his mother’s family.”

"Well, you make an incredible pie, Phil." Jay smiled at Phil. "Even better than the stuff at the Dew Drop."

You could’ve heard pins dropping on distant planets. Then Kay was roaring at Jay about keeping his damned mouth shut. Jay shouted back about who’d misappropriated agency funds in the first place, and Clint covered his mouth with his hand and laughed uncontrollably. Phil looked between them, eyebrows drawn and lips tight.

"Damn it," Clint muttered, corralling his hysteria and resting a hand on Phil’s arm. "Aw, baby, no," he crooned, leaning his forehead against Phil’s temple.

"You were in New Mexico," Phil said, keeping a tight rein on his voice. He lifted stricken eyes to Kay. "During our honeymoon?"

"I couldn’t let you vanish," Kay said, chin raised defiantly. "Not after a year thinking you were dead. I don’t regret it."

"You lied to me," Phil snapped. "You ought to regret that.” He turned a beseeching gaze on Clint. “You knew?”

Clint squeezed his hand. “We made a deal the third morning. They cleared out, and I didn’t tell you they’d been there.”

“‘They,’” Phil repeated hollowly, gaze sliding to Jay. “That explains how you knew each other.”

"Uh, yeah." Jay rubbed a spot behind his ear. "We’ve hung out some since. Guess we didn’t hide that so well."

"Try not at all," Kay scoffed.

Phil, more by habit than inclination, gave him a small smile back, then took a deep breath and looked around the table. “We could argue about this for the next hour. Or we could acknowledge that bad decisions were made, promise not to repeat our mistakes, and finish our pie.”

"I’m not promising anything," Kay grumbled. Then he winced, probably from Jay’s foot connecting with his shin.

"Sounds good, Phil," Jay said.

Phil looked at Clint, who smiled and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “that sounds great.”

"Good," Phil said, nodding. "I worked all afternoon on this damned pie, and we’re going to eat it and enjoy it like civilized people."

He got half his wish. ‘Civilized’ was a bit much to ask of Clint and Jay. At least the pie was good.


	2. The Sneeze Heard ‘Round the World, or, A Problem of Feathers (West Wing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the-wordbutler asked you:
>
>> Things I would like to see you do: **MORE ADVENTURES OF JOHN AND LADY MARBURY;** something Tony/Bruce because you know how my feelings are with them; and a story in which Stiles from the wolf show meets Dean from the Trenchcoat Angel show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you’ve not read my fic ["The Hostess,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1035188) Melisande is the embassy chef.

The British tabloids called it ‘The Sneeze Heard ‘Round the World.’ Donna, trying to be comforting, told Josh that was ridiculous; she was only standing on the other side of the yard, and she didn’t hear it.

CJ called it _'Reason #735 Why Lady Marbury Won't See His Next Birthday.'_

*

When your husband was British ambassador to the United States and members of the British royal family came to your shores, your time was not your own. Josh had lost track of how many balls, galas, fêtes, socials, and excursions he’d endured since the Duchess of Cambridge and her entourage arrived stateside. They exhausted him. John navigated the diplomatic maze like he was born to it (because he was), but Josh still struggled sometimes to keep his feet. So maybe, in hindsight, he should’ve taken John’s suggestion that he find—or invent—an excuse to skip the garden party. After all, he was the president’s deputy chief of staff. Excuses weren’t hard to come up with.

But, being the good ambassadorial spouse that he was, Josh felt attending was his duty.

As was making himself, once again, an international headline.

Well, okay. To be fair, that part wasn’t on the agenda. It just happened. As things tended to, with Josh.

*

The problems, in descending order of magnitude, were:

  1. Pie 
  2. Feathers 
  3. Pippa Middleton



The problem was _not_ Josh’s lack of game, whatever John claimed. Josh had plenty of game, okay? He hadn’t been married to a dude so long he’d forgotten how to respond when an attractive young woman flirted with him.

Only, Pippa Middleton had a hat. An absurd piece of frippery complete with tall, bushy feathers. Because the British upper class took its hats really, really seriously. So when Josh said something just shy of scandalous about Pippa’s ability to bend people to her will (“Could I persuade the waiter to leave the champagne bottle here, Mr. Lyman?” “Ms. Middleton, you could persuade nearly anyone to do nearly anything.”), and she ducked her head demurely, Josh got a noseful of feathers.

And sneezed. _As anyone would._

That would’ve been bad enough; “Bartlet Senior Staffer Sneezes on Prince’s Sister-in-Law” was the kind of headline that made CJ buy her antacids by the case. But there was also the pie. Because nothing says Anglicized Americana like a dainty sliver of apple pie served on delicate bone china while liveried waiters hovered nearby with pots of Darjeeling. And when Josh sneezed, he sort of, maybe, fumbled? his pie? Just a little? Onto Pippa’s lovely butter-yellow sundress?

So. _Flirting » feather » sneeze » pie » dress » ruination._ As per usual.

Pippa herself was endlessly gracious. The other guests and invited journalists, less so. By the time Josh, John, and the embassy staff whisked Pippa away from prying eyes, Josh had lost count of how many pictures had been snapped and posted to the Internet. He could feel CJ’s headache from here.

As he lay in bed that night, the damage-control machine happily humming on both sides of the Atlantic, Josh stared at the canopy (he slept in a bed with a canopy. His life was strange) and mused, “Maybe no pie next time.”

John snorted softly and slid into the bed beside him. “Maybe no _you_ next time.”

Josh hummed noncommittally. Unflattering, but not a terrible suggestion. U.S-British relations could probably benefit from time to recover from his tender mercies. “Good pie, though,” he said, rolling onto his side to press his back against John’s chest. “Didn’t get to finish my piece. Think Melisande would make me another?”

"I _think_ you’re ridiculous,” John said, wrapping his arm around Josh, “and Melisande surely agrees.”

Josh grinned. That wasn’t a no.


	3. Wooing Your Genius (In Three Accidental Steps) (MCU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the-wordbutler asked you:
>
>> Things I would like to see you do: MORE ADVENTURES OF JOHN AND LADY MARBURY; **something Tony/Bruce because you know how my feelings are with them;** and a story in which Stiles from the wolf show meets Dean from the Trenchcoat Angel show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one for the-wordbutler, who is NOT a jerk! A while back, I prompted someone else “Bruce accidentally wooing Tony.” Thing is, if I’ve thought about an idea enough to prompt for it, I’ve thought about it enough to write it myself. So here I am, ruthlessly exploiting that fact!

1\. Science!

Lucerne is ridiculous. The brightest scientific minds of our time, the conference organizers promised, but 15 minutes in, only Bruce’s keeping up with Tony, let alone contributing to the conversation. Two of the other men at the table (where the fuck are the women? Tony could name, off the top of his head, three scientists with lady-bits who would _kill_ at this conversation. Maybe this explains the conference’s general suck level) have fallen asleep.

Tony’s fine talking science with Bruce. He likes that Bruce keeps up and talks back. He really likes the dry, almost bitter humor that underlies almost everything the man says. He’s fine with having that without anyone interrupting with asinine ideas about the work or bigoted opinions about the minds behind it.

It’s just. Talking science with Bruce in Lucerne is exactly like talking science with Bruce in the Tower. And if they were in the Tower, they could be in comfortable clothes instead of suits, eating popcorn and dried pineapple and those bewilderingly delicious sandwiches where Clint slaps literally whatever’s in the refrigerator between two pieces of something breadlike.

Tony tilts his head at Bruce, who trails off midword to study Tony’s face and then grins. “Weird sandwich time?” he asks.

Tony jumps off the table (so he was sitting on it, not at it. Who’s gonna complain? The sleeping dudes?) and drops his arm across Bruce’s shoulders. “The mind-reading is pretty hot.” Bruce shrugs the arm off, but he’s laughing.

2\. Pepper

They’re going on a milk run. A literal _how do we have nine refrigerators and no milk?_ milk run. That’s all.

Each Avenger has a list of off-limits interview topics. This eliminates things like endless questions about Natasha’s underwear or the identity of Clint’s husband. Which, in turn, cuts down on interviewers getting punched.

But rogue journalists and paps who lurk outside the Tower don’t care about those lists.

So Tony and Bruce are trying to rescue themselves and their teammates from Thor’s bizarre Midgardian dairy product fixation (does Asgard not have _cows_?) when some damned asshole shoves a mic in Bruce’s face and unleashes a torrent of words, out of which Tony catches “Stark Industries” and “Virginia Potts.”

Tony storms over, ready to unleash righteous anger, but Bruce gently sets his hand on Tony’s wrist and says, “Usually I’d tell you where to shove that question, but I’d like to answer it. First, I don’t care who’s running Stark Industries, as long as they follow Tony Stark’s direction away from weapons. Secondly, Pepper Potts is the most competent human being, of any gender, that I’ve ever encountered. The suggestion that she slept her way to the CEO position is ludicrous and insulting to everyone involved, but especially her, and says a lot more about you than her. If Pepper had the job solely because of her romantic connection with Tony, she would’ve lost it when they broke up last spring. So your question isn’t merely insulting, it’s stupid.” He gives what Tony recognizes as his pretending-to-be-sheepish smile. “I’m sorry. Was that not the answer you were looking for?”

"Fuck yes!" Tony cheers and throws his arms around Bruce in the broiest brohug that ever broed. Except that he’s not feeling particularly broish toward Bruce right now.

Damn, that was sexy.

3\. Food

Tony slows outside the door to his workshop when he hears voices. Two familiar voices he shouldn’t be hearing in there while he’s out here.

"What were the results from last week, JARVIS?"

"Mr. Stark enjoyed the dried mango, Dr. Banner," JARVIS replies, "but not as much as the dried pineapple."

"Disappointing but not unexpected," Bruce says. Whatever he says next is muffled as he either turns around or moves away from the door, but Tony hears something about the acidity of pineapple. "I have goji berries and cumin pepitas. What do you think?"

"Mr. Stark will mock them. But enjoy them anyway."

Tony swears he hears Bruce’s smile as he says, “Pretty much what I was thinking.”

And it’s—look. Tony is a genius by any objective measure you put it to. And sometimes ‘being a geinus’ looks a lot like ‘being oblivious to humankind.’ Tony knows someone’s been restocking his food stashes; knows there’s no such thing as the ‘Snack Cache Fairy.’ But he’s been assuming it's Steve, who does most of the grocery shopping, or Coulson, who’s been mother henning the stuffing out of them since he returned to the land of the living. Knowing it’s Bruce, knowing that one of the brightest scientific minds of their era takes time out of his geniusing to look out for Tony, makes him feel—well, not to be sappy about it, but it makes him feel cared for. Loved, even.

Mind made up almost unconsciously, Tony yanks open the workshop door and storms inside. “Bruce!”

Bruce freezes, half-turned away, a package of those delicious little blueberry pie bite thingies clenched in his hand like he’s not sure if he’s going to need it as a weapon or a lifeline. “Uh, hey,” he says, failing the nonchalance gig like nobody’s business.

Tony moves into Bruce’s space. “You’ve been leaving me food.”

"I happen to have noticed your squirrel-like tendencies."

"You defended Pepper—"

"Well, that guy was an asshole—"

"You were the only good thing about Lucerne."

"Leaving Lucerne was the only good thing about Lucerne."

Tony cocks his head to the side, considering. “Did you even know you’ve been wooing me?”

Bruce jerks back, eyes wide. “I—no, I haven’t!” He blinks and looks around. “Have I?”

"Well, it’s working, whether you meant it to or not. Can I please kiss you now?"

Bruce snorts. “Since when do you ask?”

"Since Pepper spent many years drilling into me how the only word that means ‘yes’ is ‘yes.’"

"Ah." Bruce purses his lips like he’s seriously pondering Tony’s request while simultaneously trying not to laugh. "Since Lucerne? Really?" he asks. Tony nods. "In that case, yes.”

(The kiss is slow and sweet and tastes like cumin. Later, they make complete messes of each other with blueberry pie bites. Then Dummy makes a bigger mess of them while attempting to clean them up— _which nobody asked for, idiot_. It’s one of the best first dates Tony’s ever had.)


	4. No Option C (Teen Wolf/Supernatural)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the-wordbutler asked you:
>
>> Things I would like to see you do: MORE ADVENTURES OF JOHN AND LADY MARBURY; something Tony/Bruce because you know how my feelings are with them; and **a story in which Stiles from the wolf show meets Dean from the Trenchcoat Angel show.**  
> 

The first thing Dean notices as he swims back to consciousness is that he's surprisingly comfortable for being zip-tied to a chair. The second, once he can open his eyes, is that Sam's beside him, waking up sluggishly. The third, when he looks around, is that their captor is--

You!" Dean shouts, or tries to, but his voice sounds like wet sandpaper. The guy looks up anyway, all pale skin and glinting amber eyes. "I know you. You're the guy from the library. The one who got in our faces about the books we wanted."

His memory's coming back in jumps and clumps. They're hunting a pair of werewolves who're killing people all along the coast. They'd followed a lead to Beacon Hills, but they'd been ambushed in the woods by the old Hale house.

The guy--kid, really; can't be more than college-age--rolls his eyes and stands (stands _a lot_ ; Christ, how _long_ are those legs?) but doesn't move from behind the rickety folding table he's using as a desk. "Yeah, well, who walks into a library and asks for _every book_ on werewolves? I swear the hunter dictionary is missing the pages with 'stealth' and 'subtlety' on them."

"Gerard's great at stealth and subtlety," says a new and blessedly familiar voice at the top of the stairs. "Want to encourage them to be more like him?"

The corners of the kid's mouth curl. "Touché."

Allison!" Dean calls as Allison Argent comes down the stairs. "Thank god you're here. We're being held hostage by a mad librarian!"

"Library assistant," the kid corrects, weirdly gentle. "Just started my MLIS."

Allison steps up to the kid and puts a hand on his shoulder in a worryingly familial gesture. "How are they?" The bottom falls out of Dean's stomach. Are they working together? Are they working with _werewolves_?

"They're fine," the kid says. "Well, Crankypants is great. The moose seems groggy."

"Yeah." Allison nibbles her lower lip. "That's--Kira zapped him kinda hard, maybe? Melissa looked them over and said they're fine."

"Hey, great," Dean snipes. "How 'bout you let us go so we can see a _real_ doctor, rather'n your werewolf-sympathizer _quack_."

The kid's across the room in a flash. "You shut your damned mouth," he snarls, and Dean's certain he'd've gotten slapped if Allison hadn't launched herself after him. "Melissa McCall is a gift to mankind and the best nurse who'll ever poke and prod you, you fucking ingrate."

"Stiles!" Allison's hand closes around Stiles' bicep. "Don't let him bait you."

Dean grins to himself. _Don't mind if I do._ "What kind of stupid name is Stiles?"

" _Mine,_ " Stiles snaps.

"It's stupid."

"Your _face_ is stupid."

Allison releases Stiles' arm and huffs. "Glad everyone's being so mature."

"He started it," Stiles and Dean chorus. Sam and Allison snort.

Allison lowers to a crouch in front of them. Dean takes a second to appreciate how she's grown up. Not...creepily. But he's known her all her life, and she's become the woman she's always promised to be. The Argents talk a good game about matriarchy, but Gerard's always called the shots. Allison won't be anyone's figurehead. Too bad she's gone native. "You're not hostages, okay?" she says. "You're...guests. This is for your own safety as much as anything else."

Dean and Sam exchange knowing glances. Yeah, how many times've they heard that one? "For how long?" Dean asks.

"Until we get the _children_ you're terrorizing someplace you can't find them," Stiles says.

"What children?" Dean demands. "We're hunting killer werewolves."

"Yeah, no." Stiles steps back and leans against the table. "The werewolves are a 13-year-old girl and her nine-year-old brother. The killer is Allison's psycho grandfather."

Sam splutters. " _What_?"

Allison pushes to her feet and runs a hand through her dark hair, pacing a sort of no-man's land between Stiles and their 'guests.' "Gerard killed their pack. Now he--or his men--are killing innocent humans to frame them and get other hunters--mostly you two--to go after them."

Jesus Christ. Dean's heard that Gerard Argent's gone...off the path, but this--he can't--no. "I'm gonna need to see a shit-ton of evidence before I'll believe that."

Allison nods. "Fair enough. Dad's got plenty."

"What happens now?" Sam asks.

"You two stay here until we get word from Scott and Derek that the kids are safe. Then..." She shrugs. "Then you make a choice. Either you help our pack stop Gerard, or we keep you here 'til we can do it ourselves."

"We'll escape," Sam says.

Stiles grins. It's _terrifying_. "You'll _try_. But if you choose Option B, Allison's promised to take down the wards in here that block my magic. It'll be _fantastic_. For me. Not so much for you." He jerks his thumb toward the upper level, and his smile brightens. The rapid switch scares Dean as much as the threat of magical torture. "Plus, Isaac's making strawberry peach pie."

"I know this is weird for you," Allison says, "but we're the good guys here."

Thing is, Dean believes her--or will, soon as he sees the evidence. He raises his eyebrows at Sam, who lowers his. Dean's shoulders slump; Sam nods. "Option A, then," Dean says. It feels good, he thinks--incredibly weird, but good: new allies and strawberry peach pie--and a chance to make something right, for a change.


	5. The Clothes Make the Man (And the Woman) (MCU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
>
>> Oooh, alright then, prompty times - Captain America (MCU please) Peggy/Bucky/Steve pre-existing relationship - Steve comes up to their shared room to find Peggy in Buckys clothes, Bucky in Peggys clothes, and making the fuck out. Genderfuckery and lavishing love and attention on Steve is a major bonus!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M.

Half of a cherry pie, sweet-talked out of the boys in the mess, thuds onto the desktop. Steve's hands are fists by the time it hits.

There are people in his quarters. A man and a woman, the woman pressed against the wall, wrapped tight in each other's arms, lips pressed together like their kiss is gonna end the war. He's used to people in his quarters. He's used to this level of passion. He's even used to those clothes. _But he doesn't know these people_.

Steve strides across the room. "What's going on?" he demands. He grabs the man by the shoulder, turns him so they're face-to-face, and--

Oh.

There's a soft laugh, almost a giggle, from behind them. Steve flushes all over, skin prickling. His fingers slacken.  
Everything's a little... _off_. Peggy's breasts and hips swell Bucky's uniform almost beyond capacity, gapping shirt buttons offering a teasing glimpse of lace below. And the sharp lines of Bucky's body as he leans against the wall make that dress--the green one Peggy loves so--look dangerous in the fading evening light.

"Hello, darling," Peggy says, voice husky with desire yet perfectly efficient. "We didn't mean to start without you, but you were late and, well..." She waves a hand at Bucky. "Look at him."  
  
" _Me_?" Bucky protests, pushing away from the wall. He slinks up to them and plasters himself against Peggy's side. Her arm comes around his waist, and he turns his face toward her, nuzzling lightly against her throat. "And I thought you were irresistible in your own uniform," he says roughly.  
  
"Uh," Steve says, sliding his hand up to rest against the soft skin on the side of Peggy's neck. He flicks his tongue over his dry lips, noting how two sets of eyes track the motion. "This is great, but--what's going on?"  
  
Peggy shrugs, trails her free hand up and down Steve's arm. "You know how it is. Leave a couple of schemers alone together...Now!" She squeezes Steve's bicep and pushes him lightly. "Onto the bed you get."  
  
He goes--he'll go anywhere either of them direct him, without hesitation or protest. They're not idle as he goes; tender hands peel him out of his clothes, stroke softly over abs and thighs. By the time his knees hit the metal frame of his bunk, he's naked and trembling.  
  
Peggy nudges him to kneel on the bed. "Rest a moment, love," she murmurs, fingers warm at the small of his back. "We'll be right with you." She turns to Bucky. "James, if you could help me for a moment?" Bucky grins at her, and they move to the other side of the room--if quarters this small have sides. Steve stretches out on his stomach, pillows his head on his arms, and closes his eyes. He's willing to wait. Willing to let the others take over for a while.  
  
After a moment, a broad hand cups Steve's ass, then the fingers twist, pinching. "Damn it, Bucky!" he yelps, jumping. Bucky smiles sharply at him, twitching his hips in a way that ought to look ridiculous but makes the dress sway promisingly, shooting fire along Steve's skin. He reaches out languidly, aching to touch, but Bucky dances away, wagging a finger at him as he settles, almost primly, onto the chair beside the bed.  
  
"Excellent," Peggy says. "Exactly where I want you." She leans over the chair and kisses Bucky, slow and almost insolent.  
  
"Exactly where I want to be," Bucky says when they break apart, smiling at her--a real smile, not the smirk he shows the world. He's so genuine with the two of them, and it warms Steve that he and Peggy can give Bucky this.  
  
Peggy turns, and warm turns into burning. The fly of Bucky's uniform pants is undone, and from it juts a beautiful wooden dildo. "Peggy," Steve gasps, voice already wrecked. She moves just close enough for him to touch; the wood is smooth, warm, crafted with immense skill.  
  
"What do you think?" she murmurs. "Will it feel good inside you?"  
  
Steve whimpers, hips thrusting against the bed. "Please," he begs and scrambles onto hands and knees.  
  
Peggy moves up behind him. The rasp of the uniform against his skin makes him twitch restlessly, hands already clenching and unclenching against the sheets. "Shhh, love," Peggy says, running her hands up and down his spine. "Relax. I have you." She does, and he knows it. It makes him keen.  
  
She prepares him gently, curling gel-cooled fingers slowly in and out, building his arousal in waves instead of spikes. Her fingers are slimmer than Bucky's, but longer. And though she keeps her nails in excellent repair, there's a bit of a point at the top, that edge of danger that shades into pain. Steve's eyes drift closed, powerless against the tides of pleasure. Her other hand drops soft touches across his back, runs through his hair, presses at the nape of his neck. "I so rarely get to do this part," she says. "You feel so good." She adds a third finger and brushes his prostate; he gasps and writhes.  
  
"Peggy, please, _please_. I'm ready."  
  
"Good," she says, sliding her fingers out with a slow twist. "I'm going to take such good care of you, I promise." Her hand runs down his spine, rests at the top of of his ass. "Eyes on James for as long as you can, please."  
  
Steve opens his eyes and turns his head toward the chair, offering Bucky what feels like an incredibly dopey smile. "Hi."  
  
Bucky grins back and reaches out, running his fingers along Steve's hairline. "Hey, yourself, punk. How you feeling?"  
  
"Great."  
  
"Gonna keep watchin'?"  
  
As if he could do anything but what Peggy tells him, at this point. He shifts his shoulders. "You gonna do something worth watching?"  
  
Bucky laughs low. He runs the fingers of one hand along the neckline of the dress. Then he winks at Steve, parts his legs, and slips his other hand underneath the hem.  
  
"Bucky," Steve groans, and then polished wood is at his entrance, pushing inside in one smooth slide. "Oh!"  
  
"All right, love?" Peggy asks. "Do you need a moment?"  
  
The dildo's smaller than Bucky, so the stretch isn't a problem, but it is different; unyielding. He nods and takes the respite she's offering. After a minute he shifts experimentally, and his mind fills with fireworks. "Ready," he gasps.  
  
The slow tenderness of before vanishes as Peggy grabs Steve's hips and sets a bruising rhythm (would be bruising for anyone else, but not for him, and he roars approval). Words of praise, sounds of pleasure, strings of increasingly creative profanities (Steve wishes he were coherent enough to remember them), drop from her lips, pressed against the flushed skin of Steve's shoulders and back.  
  
In the chair, Bucky's hand moves beneath the dress, stroking himself in time with Peggy's relentless pace. Steve can't see what Bucky's doing, and the tantalizing suggestion of it makes Steve's breath catch over and over.  
  
Close, he's so _close_ , needs something more but doesn't know what. " _Please_ ," he begs brokenly, not sure what he's asking for but certain the two clever, beloved people here with him will know, will show him what he needs when he can't see it himself.  
"James, dearest," Peggy says, just barely out of breath. Bucky lunges out of the chair and captures Steve's lips in a devastating kiss. He reaches under Steve's bowed torso and strokes his aching cock twice, flicks his thumb over the slit, and Steve comes with a howl that slides down Bucky's throat. Bucky strokes Steve through the aftershocks, then his hand's gone, plunging down the front of Peggy's (his?) slacks. Peggy's breath hitches, and her hips twitch helplessly, making Steve gasp with tiny tremors as the dildo shifts minutely inside him.  
  
Bucky shifts closer, grunts, and comes, spilling messily on the bed and the backs of Steve's shaking arms, which are just barely propping him up. The dress, miraculously, looks unsoiled. Bucky's breath is ragged and his head drops onto Steve's shoulder, but his other hand picks up speed, and in another minute Peggy squeezes tight against Steve's hips and shudders down to her toes.  
  
In the reverent quiet that follows, while heartbeats slow and breathing normalizes, Bucky takes his hand out of Peggy's pants, Peggy carefully pulls out of Steve, and Steve collapses onto his stomach, uncaring that he's landed in a puddle of his and Bucky's drying come. Chuckling, Bucky presses a kiss to Steve's shoulder, then crosses to the wash basin for a wet cloth. Steve braces, but the cold water's a shock, though not an entirely unpleasant one, to his overheated skin. "I know," Bucky murmurs. "I know."  
  
Peggy finally takes off her clothes and arranges herself and Steve on the bed (reinforced for Steve's enhanced strength, and damn, but it comes in handy), strong arms wrapped around Steve's chest, one hand over his heart, leaving a sliver of space for Bucky at the edge. But Bucky's at the desk, distracted, humming delightedly to himself. Steve half tries to see what he's up to but can't be bothered to put much effort into it.  
  
The bed dips, with surprising caution. Bucky's sitting up, not laying beside them. Steve scowls. Then, "Hey, open up," Bucky says, and a bite of cherry pie's sliding between Steve's parted lips. Steve grins as he chews and slips his hand under the dress to rest on Bucky's thigh. He presses back against Peggy as she leans forward to accept a bite. He could get used to this.


	6. Me and You and Me (MCU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
>
>> no restrictions on pairings, eh? okay… then I'll prompt a Natasha/Natasha fic from Avengers! Natasha gets secretly cloned by Shield and when the two find out about each other, they opt for love rather than war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuckyeahclonesex! I tweaked the prompt a bit, because it was the only way I could make it work for myself, but I’ve stayed true to it otherwise.
> 
> Rated M.

SHIELD has protocols for _everything_. Natasha knows the three primary, and six secondary, steps to take upon encountering a doppelgänger, clone, or unauthorized self-aware LMD double.

This is not any of those steps.

She looks at the woman lying naked on the bed before her (they call her Natalia, to spare themselves the mental and linguistic gymnastics anything else requires) and doesn’t give a damn.

Natasha lowers her head and catches Natalia’s lips in a slow, gentle kiss. Natalia pushes back, trying to deepen the kiss, speed it up, turn it into something hungrier, but Natasha resists. “It’s all right,” she murmurs—in English; it’s beyond galling that her own clone doesn’t speak Russian, but she can’t do anything about it right now—“We have time.”

Vladikavkaz had seemed like a simple mission: Sitwell leading Natasha and Steve through a sweep of an abandoned HYDRA lab while Coulson let Skye run amok with some back-end hacking Natasha didn’t want details on.

Everything had been going well—the facility as empty as surveillance indicated, interesting info and tech either secreted away or photographed for later extraction—when Sitwell’s voice—mostly just curious—came through the comms: “Hey, Cap, hang a left at the next T; there’s a room with a weird heat signature I want you to check out.”

And in the room, two clones in stasis: one of Bucky, and one of Natasha. To say nothing of the twisted remnants of prior, failed cloning attempts (please, say nothing of it; the thought still brings bile to Natasha’s throat). The Bucky clone’s stasis chamber had been compromised; he died before they were out of the building and Steve didn’t speak the rest of the way home. But the Natasha clone was perfect, and she came up _fighting_.

Natasha works down Natalia’s body, lips lingering, hands moving in slow, firm strokes. She moves slowly but without hesitation; why would she hesitate when she knows what reaction every touch will evoke? She devotes extra time to the outer curve of the right breast, a narrow band around the navel—erogenous zones only the most diligent lover would find. From the way Natalia startles at many of them, diligent lovers have been thin on the ground.

It’d been hard to know how to behave in relation to each other. Were they enemies because Natalia was a HYDRA creation? Were they sisters because they were genetically identical? They’d led different lives, had different experiences. Subjected to HYDRA’s cruel rapid-development drug, Natalia’s 20 biologically, 10 chronologically, and seems 50 experientially. She’s more jaded than Natasha was even at her lowest ebb, before Clint brought her into SHIELD. A month in, they’ve settled into wary friendship, but Natasha wonders how long the truce will hold.

After a grueling sparring session, Natasha and Natalia had been sneaking slices of a pecan pie Rhodey made, last time he was over, when Phil and Clint passed in front of the kitchen’s enormous glass front. Clint was walking backward, talking excitedly about something, and Phil’s attention was entirely fixed on him. Neither of them noticed anyone in the kitchen. When Clint reached the end of whatever he’d been saying, he made a (not that Natasha would admit it) fucking adorable “ta-da!” gesture. Phil rolled his eyes but couldn’t keep the smile off his lips, and then he was grabbing the front of Clint’s shirt and reeling him in for an enthusiastic kiss. When Clint pulled back, he looked startled for a second. Then he grinned and kept walking, already talking again.

Natasha snorted into her pie as they disappeared from view. Then she looked up and noticed the baffled frown on Natalia’s face. “What?”

Natalia waved her fork at the now-empty window. “Why did he do that?”

Natasha frowned a little, too. “Do what?”

"Coulson. Why did he kiss Barton?"

"Because they’re married."

"I know that, but—" Natalia stared where Clint and Phil had been as though the hallway were hiding vital secrets. "But why _then_? What did Coulson get out of it?”

Ice flooded through Natasha. One of the main things that had sold her on SHIELD was a promise Phil had made her about things that wouldn’t be expected of her. A promise that, clearly, no one had made to Natalia. Natasha pushed away her plate and slid off her stool, coming to rest in front of the other woman. “You’ve never had that, have you?” she asked softly. Natalia cocked her head, searching Natasha’s face in confusion. “A kiss that isn’t a battle tactic. A sexual encounter that isn’t a transaction.” And then she’d watched emotions chase each other furiously across Natalia’s face—skepticism, bewilderment, fear, hope—and knew what she needed to do.

Sex with your emotionally stunted clone. Hardly in the SHIELD protocol playbook, but far from the strangest thing Natasha’s done.

Natalia shifts and sighs, finally beginning to relax, to believe in what Natasha’s offering her. Later—if there is a later; Natasha won’t push either way—Natasha will do this with her fingers only, so she can hold Natalia and look into her eyes as long as either of them can take it, but Natalia’s not ready for that, so Natasha closes her lips around Natalia’s clit and slides her tongue gently over it. Natalia gasps and bucks her hips—just a little. They’re just getting started.

She sets up an agonizingly slow rhythm of tongue against clit. Like with the kiss, she resists Natalia’s efforts at speeding things up, ignores the moans and the gasps and the rocking hips and the hand tangled in her hair. It’s been ages since anyone took Natasha apart this carefully, and it’s sending the same flames through her as it does through Natalia.

” _Пожалуйста_ ,” Natalia begs, one of the ten Russian words Natasha’s taught her so far. Her voice breaks, her trembling hand lightens its grip and strokes gently over Natasha’s hair, and Natasha finally, finally relents, licks and sucks and nips, slides two relentlessly curling fingers inside Natalia’s wet heat. She knows Natalia’s close because her toes flex and release, down at the end of the bed, while up at the headboard, Natalia makes a startled "Oh," as she realizes how spectacularly she’s about to come. Natasha gives a smug hum, and that’s the breaking point. Natalia writhes and jerks and squeezes around Natasha’s fingers as Natasha eases her through the aftershocks.

Then Natalia’s hands are swatting at Natasha’s shoulders—futilely, but her message is clear, and Natasha crawls up the bed to collapse at Natalia’s side, bringing the other woman into her arms and peppering kisses on her sweat-damp hair.

”Natasha,” Natalia says breathlessly, turning her face up for a kiss Natasha happily bestows, fingers tracing along the Natalia’s jawline. “Thank you,” Natalia whispers. Natasha holds her closer and does not cry about everything they’ve endured.

Natalia’s hand snakes down Natasha’s body, fingers flicking a nipple, brushing across her stomach, but Natasha grabs it before it can slide lower. Natalia looks up through her eyelashes, confused and edging toward petulant. “Don’t you want—”

Of course Natasha wants; she’s throbbing with it. But this whole undertaking was premised on the lack of exchange; she needs to make absolutely sure Natalia understands that. “I’m fine, Дорогая моя,” she promises, kissing Natalia again. “This was for you.”

Natalia studies her, eyes tracking across her face in search of the catch, the trick, and Natasha keeps her expression as open as she can manage. Eventually Natalia finds something that reassures her, because she nods and sinks down against Natasha’s side. It won’t last long; Natasha’s never been a cuddler, and there’s no reason her clone would be any different. But for now, it’s okay.

For now, maybe everything’s okay.


	7. We Can Work It Out (MCU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> paperdollkiss asked:
>
>> woo prompts. C/C Phil is an overworked architect/construction worker something... he gets literally dragged to a massage therapist who is Clint. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Beatles' song of the same name--a pun in the best (and worst) possible way.

Clint's at the front desk, adding a note to Heather Bishop's client record ( _"Female staff only. Sexual harassment-level comments and groping toward male staff."_ ) and half-listening to Darcy promising whoever's on the phone that "We won't let him leave, no matter how much he glowers," when door opens, and a guy walks in who's the _epitome_ of Clint's type, down to the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, the ones Clint's sure would be deeper if the guy were smiling.

He's not smiling. In fact, the look on his face would be more appropriate if he were anticipating a root canal, rather than a massage.

"Hello," Darcy says brightly, "welcome to World Tree." Thor's _mom_ named the place. Clint wants that on the record.

The guy's smile is forced, but it's there, and Clint's relieved; he'd hate to perv on a guy who'd take his bad mood out on the staff. "I have a 10:30 with...Thor." There's a pause before he says it that manages to sound like an eye-roll. Clint's impressed.

Darcy navigates to the client database home screen. "Are you Phil?"

He blinks. "Uh. Yes." He says it through gritted teeth, and Clint can't remember _anyone_ ever looking less pleased to be here.

"Ms. Hill told us to expect you, Mr. Coulson." Darcy smiles. She has a lovely smile, when she chooses to use it. "So, Thor's partner went into labor at, like, three this morning, so he's out today." For a second, Coulson's shoulders relax, like he's relieved to get out of the message. They tense again as Darcy continues, "So you've been reassigned with--"

"Me!" Clint says, too loudly and enthusiastically. On the screen, the box under "Therapist Assigned" says **SGR** , the bolded font almost accusatory. Darcy gapes; he stomps her foot under the desk. He holds his hand out. "I'm Clint."

Phil shakes. "Phil," he says, grudgingly.

Darcy snorts and mutters something Clint doesn't catch ( _hearing aid batteries_ has topped his shopping list for _weeks_ ), but she changes the therapist box to **CFB**.

"Come on back, we'll get you set up," Clint says and feels, unaccountably, like an idiot, though he says this to all his clients. Phil follows with extreme reluctance, and a nervous prickle creeps along Clint's spine. "Uh, unless you're not comfortable with a male therapist? I think Sif's free, I could--"

"It's fine," Phil says brusquely. Then he sighs and looks... _contrite_ for a second. "Sorry," he says. "I don't mean to be short. I just--this was not my idea."

"Oh?" Clint says, expression neutral.

"I got injured." He says this like the darkest confession of a man who doesn't like to admit to human frailty. "And Maria made it clear--"

"Yeah," Clint says as he ushers Phil into the dimly-lit massage room. "She's made things clear to me before, too." Sitwell Hill employees are World Tree's best clients. The architects on Maria's side of the firm have terminally hunched shoulders, and Jasper's construction crews tend to be masses of wrenched shoulders and thrown backs. "You can change in there--" He indicates the curtained-off area at the back of the room. "Take off as much or as little as you're comfortable with."

"But it wasn't a workplace injury," Phil says as he disappears behind the curtain. "Not that work. So I don't see why--"

"Pain's pain," Clint says. "Doesn't matter how you got hurt, it still impacts your ability to do your job."

Phil hums but doesn't say anything else. He reappears in green boxers and climbs onto the table. Clint's prepping his towels and massage oils. He's not ogling the muscles of Phil's back and arms. Nope nope nope. Nor is he silently thanking Thor for a lax dress code that allows him to work in roomy track pants.

"Mind if I ask how you _did_ get hurt?" Clint asks as he warms the massage oil in his palms and slides his hands up Phil's back to scout out tense areas. "I mean, you don't have to say, but it might help to know--"

"My other job," Phil says, sounding _very_ put-out, "is as a safety instructor at a gun range downtown. There was..." He pauses uncomfortably. "An incident. _Nng._ " Yup. Found one.

"Holy crap," Clint blurts-- _completely professionally_ \--"you're the foreman who--Maria couldn't stop talking about how you'd stopped a shooting and--"

"And fucked up my shoulder in the process," Phil says, like _that's_ the relevant detail in a story where he _stopped some psycho from shooting up a gun range._

Clint clears his throat and goes back to the knots in Phil's shoulder. Phil's obviously uncomfortable talking about the nonshooting, so Clint fills the air with empty prattle. He knows how to keep his silences, but he knows how to fill them, too, and Phil seems like he wants chatter (rather than the dopey New Age whale-song-and-babbling-brook music Thor pipes through the sound system; seriously, do people not get how _big_ whales are?) to distract him from the fact that some strange dude's laying hands all over him.

Miracle of miracles, after a few tense minutes, Phil starts talking back, mostly short interjections here and there, interspersed between appreciative grunts and groans when Clint hits particularly sore or tight spots. But they're enough for Clint to know that Phil is sharp, dryly funny, and _listening_ to what Clint's saying.

It's...weirdly comfortable. Clint's no stranger to being turned on by his clients--professional detachment has its limits--but he knows how to acknowledge his reactions and let them go. But something about Phil...this is more than lust. This makes Clint think dangerous thoughts about quiet nights in front of a crackling fireplace, lazy Sundays making pancakes in a borrowed bath robe. Which-- _shit_. He doesn't know if this dude's into dudes, let alone whether he's into _Clint_. Clint swallows and presses maybe harder than he should on a knot in Phil's lower back, and Phil snorts.

Clint's hands still. That's...not the reaction he expected. "Phil?" he asks softly. "You okay?"

Phil responds with another snort. Which, Clint realizes, isn't a snort. It's a snore. Phil has fallen asleep on the table.

Clint stares at the back of Phil's head where it rests on the pillow, face turned away from Clint. A wave of _fondness_ hits him, utterly ridiculous toward a man he's known less than an hour, before he shakes his head, grinning, and continues the massage.

When the hour ends, he moves around the table and crouches in front of Phil. _Oh, shit, he's adorable when he sleeps._ Clint presses his palms briefly against his cheeks. "Hey," he says, then, louder, "Phil, wake up."

Phil jerks awake, and Clint groans inwardly as he imagines all his work undone in one tense clench of muscles. But Phil forces himself to relax and scrubs his hand over his face. "Hey," he says, and clears his throat when his voice comes out sleep-thick. "Did I--crap, I'm sorry." He grimaces. "I drooled on your pillow."

"It's okay," Clint says, laughing. "I take it as a compliment when people relax enough to fall asleep. Need help up?"

Phil considers the noodly state of his legs and nods. Clint helps him to his feet and to the changing area, keeping his hands firmly above the waist. He wipes down the table and reorganizes his supplies while Phil is behind the curtain. When he emerges, Clint gives him a quick once-over. Now that he's seen Phil mostly naked, he has a new appreciation for the impressive musculature hiding under the unassuming blue button-down and faded jeans. Phil stands uncertainly at the head of the table, turning his watch in his hands. "Uh, thanks," he says.

Clint smiles. "You're welcome. I know you didn't want to be here--"

"I didn't," Phil agrees, but there's no anger, anymore. "I'm glad I did, though. But don't tell Maria. Her I-told-you-so voice is unbearable."

Clint's smile widens, and _fuck_. He can't let Phil walk out the door. "Listen, this is the most unprofessional thing I've ever done, but do you--"

" _Yes_ ," Phil says, emphatic and a little breathless.

Clint snorts helplessly. "I haven't asked anything yet."

Phil crosses the small room and slips into Clint's space like he was made for it. His eyes are almost unbearably intense. "Doesn't matter," he says. "Whatever you're going to ask, my answer will be yes."

Clint laughs shakily. He ghosts his hand down Phil's side, barely touching. "Wow. You don't mess around, do you?"

Phil shrugs one shoulder and squeezes Clint's hip gently. "I'm the wrong side of 50 to waste time."

And, hell, is there a _right_ side of 50 to waste time? Clint sways forward and presses his lips briefly to Phil's, delighted by the approving sigh Phil gives. Clint pulls back before he does something regrettable on work property and closes his eyes to find his bearings. When he opens them again, he says, "As soon as I update your record, I'm on lunch. There's a deli two blocks from here--nothing fancy, but they have great pie." He cocks his head. "You like pie? I couldn't take up with someone who doesn't like pie."

Phil laughs and takes a half-step back. Clint can breathe again. "Who doesn't like pie?"

" _Assholes_ ," Clint says emphatically. "Wait for me out front?"

"I'll be there," Phil promises, smiling.

Clint grins back, and they head to the front room, where Clint logs into Phil's record and, grateful that Darcy's stepped away for a minute, adds a note: _"CFB only. I don't like sharing."_


	8. At Home With... (Breakfast Club)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sweaterkittensahoy asked:
>
>> Brian/Bender, Bender gets grabbed by the media to do one of those "political spouse" interviews and ends up getting all the inane questions that generally go to the wife. +5 if he's got a snarky response to "You've got a lovely home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't really express HOW FREAKING EXCITED this prompt made me.  
> For those of you who don't know, what SKA cleverly did here was prompt me to write something that would be in-universe for the [Brian in politics fic idea I was rambling about in January](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/post/74164261848/so-minnesota-has-a-state-representative-named), possibly in hopes that it would impel me to write that sooner? That main story eventually was realized in ["Lysistrata 2.0."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1699259), and in the meantime, I adored writing this ficlet. I'd be going about my life, and I'd think of a funny thing Bender could say and be overcome with giggles. Thank you.

A note left on John Bender's nightstand:

_J--_

_1\. Don't make the interviewer cry._

_2\. Wear the red pullover with the stretched-out sleeves. It looks good in photos._

_3\. DO NOT MAKE THE INTERVIEWER CRY._

_Love you._

_\--B_

*

 _Transcript of the unpublished first half of Georgie Pollack's interview with John Bender for the "At Home With..." feature of_ Illinois Gracious Living _magazine, March 2015:_

 **Georgie Pollack:** Thank you for having us here, Mr. Bender. You have a lovely home.

 **John Bender:** Thanks, but it's, uh, not ours? We're...squatting, is, I think, the legal term. But Brian says the guy who owns it's doing 30 to life in Joliet, so we have time.

 **GP:** Um. Right. So...what's it like being the spouse of a state representative?

 **JB:** So far, mostly like being the spouse of a Cook County commissioner, except the people are snobbier and the parties are boring.

 **GP:** They won't be boring for much longer, with you around! I hear you're the life of any party.

 **JB:** I used to be, but I ran out of weed back in...'92? '93? and couldn't afford more. I've been dull ever since.

 **GP:** Well, I bet the congressional husbands love you! With so few women in the General Assembly, they've been pretty lonely.

 **JB:** Women only make up 30 percent of the General Assembly, and the problem is that the _men_ are lonely?

 **GP:** Do you--do you have them over? I know you and Representative Johnson are fond of entertaining.

 **JB:** Congressional husbands foam parties. Every weekend 'til the end of session.

 **GP:** And they must, um...love your killer version of Rick Bayless' Mexican chocolate pie!

 **JB:** Yeah, okay, let's talk about that pie. That was developed by our friend Allison Reynolds, who studied under Bayless at Frontera. And Bayless is a great guy--he's on record saying that's Allison's recipe. But whose name gets remembered? The man's. Because our society still doesn't value or acknowledge women's contributions equally with men's.

 **GP:** Uh...oh! Allison Reynolds was at your wedding! I have...pictures. Wedding pictures. From your wedding. On June first. You looked so happy.

 **JB:** Well, you know. Nothing brings a smile to my face like knowing enough complete strangers have finally deigned to allow me to file a joint tax return with the man who's been the only stable force in my life for the last quarter century.

 **GP:** You and Representative Johnson were such vocal proponents of marriage for same-sex couples, when he was a commissioner, people were surprised by how low-key your wedding was.

 **JB:** Elton John and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir were booked.

 **GP:** I mean, looking at these pictures, those aren't even tuxes. They're just...suits. Very nice suits, don't get me wrong, but I think people expected more...splash.

 **JB:** Oh, you mean because we're gay men. And gay men throw such incredible parties.

 **GP:** Uh, well...

 **JB:** Of course it's traditional, in gay weddings, for the top to wear the tuxedo and the bottom to wear the dress. But Bri and I switch so much we couldn't figure out who should wear what, so we both went with suits. I blame our permissive modern age for upsetting traditional gender roles.

 **GP** (whispering, near tears) **:** Why...why are you _doing_ this?

 **JB:** Why are _you_ doing this? Party hosting? _Pie_? I don't give many interviews, you know? But I said yes to this farce, even though I _hate Illinois Gracious Living_ , because your interview with Tam O'Shaughnessy last year was so beautiful it made me _cry_. What is this shit?

 **GP:** Are you fucking kidding me? That was Chicago Public Media. This is _Illinois Gracious Living._

 **JB:** That's no excuse for _stupid_ questions.

 **GP:** Yes, it is. My editor gave me a list, Mr. Bender. Questions I'm supposed to ask you. We've barely scratched the surface, and every one's dumber than the last. I don't like it any more than you do, but I'm a freelancer, and I have to pay my bills, too. So, listen, let's make a deal: I've actually been trying for the last month to convince one of the producers at WBEZ to let me do a feature on you and Representative Johnson. But she's leery, because you have a crap reputation when it comes to the press. Let's get through this stupid interview about your stupid house, and show her you can play nice, and then maybe we can sit down and talk about minority representation in the General Assembly, and your work with juvenile diversion programs, and all the serious stuff. Deal?

 **JB:**...you think our house is stupid?

 **GP:** _That's_ what you got out of that?

 **JB:** BEZ?

 **GP:** Yeah. Fancy-pants public broadcasting.

 **JB:** Me and Brian both?

 **GP:** Anything you want to talk about and nothing you don't.

 **JB:** Ask me your dumb questions about gracious living.

 **GP:** Thank you for having us here, Mr. Bender. You have a lovely home.

 **JB:** Thank you. We're quite proud of it--and it's great for entertaining....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tam O'Shaughnessy](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tam_O%27Shaughnessy)


	9. Unknown Number (MCU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
>
>> Jarvis/Tony - inappropriate sexting in an avengers meeting. extra points if Jarvis initiates it.

**Unknown Number**

**Unknown Number:** _I’m watching you._

 _Unknown Number._ A joke of sorts, because Tony doesn’t actually know his own phone number. A tendril of desire unfurls in his groin, and he grins as he types, _You’re always watching me._ If anyone else at the table knows what he’s doing, they keep it to themselves. Not that they’d care if they did. The rest of the team’s as bushed as he is, and Coulson learned years ago that Tony actually pays _more_ attention when he’s working on at least three things at once, so he tends to encourage the frantic bouts of multitasking. _Not much of a show, huh?_

**Unknown Number:** _Not yet._  
 **Unknown Number:** _But this is a long briefing at the end of a longer day. As soon as Agent Coulson releases you, you will head directly to the shower._  
 **Unknown Number:** _I will have the room prepared to your specifications: lights at half, water as hot as it goes. And then you will give me a show I will watch and listen to every second of._

Tony knows that a lot of people—sane people, legitimately looking out for his best interests—worry about his relationship with Jarvis. They consider it a manifestation of extreme narcissism; after all, Tony literally _made_ Jarvis. Tony doesn’t care about anyone else’s opinions, but he _has_ tried to explain that he didn’t do this. He didn’t program Jarvis to have a romantic attachment to him—or anyone. Jarvis did that himself, built the subroutine from other parts of his coding. Which, on one hand, holy terrifying Skynet, Batman. On the other, how _amazing_ is it that something about Tony so intrigued (captivated? Well, that’s narcisissm for you) Jarvis that he built himself the capacity for attraction so he could feel it for Tony? Nobody else has ever done anything like that for him.

As for Tony’s own feelings, well, while the Pygmalion jokes aren’t entirely unwarranted, what draws Tony to Jarvis most are the things he _didn’t_ program. They have the kind of closeness that takes years to develop, and they know so much about each other, but there’s still more to learn, still more to be fascinated with. All that plus mind-blowing sex—what more does anybody ask from a relationship?

(Also, Jarvis turns out to be a master of subtle, immaculately punctuated sexts. Tony hadn’t known he could be turned on by well-placed semicolons.)

His fingers maybe tremble a little (though he admits that’s as likely due to low blood-sugar as arousal; all he’s eaten in the last 25 hours is a slice of peach pie) as he replies, _Watch and listen? That the best you got?_

Uh, yeah. The AI he created likes to be challenged. Raise your hand if you’re surprised. Nobody? Good.

**Unknown Number:** _Perhaps._  
 **Unknown Number:** _Or perhaps today would be a good day to open one of the panels and engage an attachment. The mouth, I think._

Heat floods Tony’s body. He gives no outward sign (though Natasha gives him a suspicious look from across the table), but he’s hardening rapidly in his jeans, and he needs this meeting to be over, like, ten minutes ago. He crosses the _t_ in “Stark,” slams his mission folder shut, and flings it at Coulson. “Agent, these guys are penny-ante pissants. Not worth getting your government-issued Y-fronts in a twist over. If you want to waste your time on them, waste it worrying about the fact that their funding comes from AIM.” He stands. “Meeting adjourned.”

"Meeting _not_ adjourned, Mr. Stark,” Coulson calls.

"It is for me!" Tony calls back as he walks out of the room. As soon as the elevator doors close behind him, he’s unknotting his tie, pulling off his shirt, and hopping to get out of his shoes. "Jesus Christ, J," he says, staring at the wall where one of Jarvis’ visual sensors is embedded, "fire up that shower. I need your cybernetic hand-analogues all over me."

Jarvis snorts, an all-encompassing sound that fills the elevator car like an embrace. “You do say the sweetest things, sir.”


	10. Digging Out (How Can I Miss You When You Won't Go Away?) (MCU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> iamironmanda asked:
>
>> I would love some Bruce Banner angst. Preferably in the MCU.

Rebuilding Midtown will take _years_ , but within a month of the Chitauri invasion the foundations of rebirth are well-established. Donations flood in from around the world; Tony and Steve pony up untold millions from their own coffers (funny story about Howard Stark appointing himself Steve's financial advisor _in absentia_ after the plane went down); the multinationals of Midtown spare no expense to restore the splendor of their corporate aeries.

Most every morning, Tony, Steve, and Thor pile into one of Tony's sleek cars and head to the battle sites. They spend their days doing literal clean-up that's also good for the Avengers' public image, which the battle left tarnished. Some days, Clint and Natasha join them, days when they're home from missions and the burn of Coulson's loss bursts into violent flame.

Every morning, Bruce Banner gets on a subway car and rides to Harlem.

Thirteen months have passed since he and Blonsky blundered through Harlem, leaving devastation in their wake. The foundations of rebirth are _not_ well-established here. SHIELD did rudimentary clean-up after the fight, clearing the worst rubble, but they've done nothing to aid restoration of the homes and business that thrived here before. Because the faces are darker and the pockets emptier. Because the business and companies that have settled here are quirky and heartfelt, rather than ruthless and expansive. Because, terrifying as it is to think that there are _aliens_ out there, and that those aliens don't like us, it's still easier to deal with the aftermath of extraterrestrial invasion than to acknowledge that monsters are already _here_ , ones that confirm every fear of how low humankind can sink.

So Bruce goes to Harlem, to the places where the people who live and work on these streets are slowly, painfully, rebuilding their lives. A lot of his reasons are mired in guilt, but also, he prefers it here: with no journalists hovering around the clean-up sites, the people who come do so want to help, not to burnish their images with a good show of community service. This is _his_ , not SHIELD's and their damage-control teams, not Tony's and his media circus. He wishes more people fell into the category of wanting to help, but he's also a little glad they don't.

And Bruce gives his money, insufficient though it is, to the rebuilding efforts. He's never regretted his poverty as much as he does when he sees the figures for how much more capital the rebuilding requires. But he donates every cent of his SHIELD honorarium and half of everything he makes consulting for Stark Industries. It's not much, but it's what he has.

Today he's sitting in a tiny coffee shop that's just functional enough to be open, though still enough in the path of destruction that mice frequently skitter over his feet. He's drinking nondescript black tea, eating coconut cream pie, and willing himself to get to work. It's a public library branch today, and they're going to work on the bathroom. Bruce is not confident about his ability to plumb.

The door bursts open and he's facing Janetta, the head of Harlem Reborn! the nonprofit that's coordinating much of the rebuilding effort. "Dr. Banner!" she shouts when she sees him. She doesn't know who he is on his off days, doesn't know he's responsible for much of the damage he's now trying to undo. "You'll never guess! Someone made an anonymous donation to the fund. Two _million_ dollars. That's..." She's near hyperventilating with excitement. "Sweet Jesus, think of what we can _do_ with that!"

Bruce _does_ think of it as he helps Janetta into a chair and helps her normalize her breathing, motioning for a second cup of tea. But mostly he's thinking, _Fuck you, Tony Stark. So you figured me out, and you think that makes you superior somehow. But you can't throw money at the problem like this and expect the world to throw themselves gratefully at your feet._ Well, the world probably will. But Bruce won't.

Outside, someone shouts, "Holy shit, it's _Iron Man_!" The coffee shop empties in an instant, customers and staff alike pouring out to join the throng that's staring into the sky, hands shielding eyes, to behold the red-and-gold blur streaking across the sky.

Inside the deserted shop, Bruce puts his head in his hands and laughs, great gasps of uncontrollable laughter that wrack his body as surely as a transformation. It's a laugh not of good humor, or any humor at all, but of hysteria, of a man who's finally acknowledging that he no longer controls his own life.

Nobody hears but the mice.


	11. Sins of the Mother (Teen Wolf/MCU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The MCU/Teen Wolf crossover no one asked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one asked for this one, but elements in the other prompts inspired it, and I worked on it in bits and pieces alongside the others. It is 100% noncompliant with _Teen Wolf_ season 3b.

"Do you have _any_ idea how much damage you’ve done? How many _years_ of effort that registry represented?”

Clint’s seen mission-hardened Level 7 SHIELD agents _crumple_ at that ice-hard note in Phil’s voice, but the two teenagers shackled to the cold metal chairs of the interrogation cell don’t even flinch. In fact, the hyper one (Stiles, Clint thinks he’s called; Phil didn’t exactly take time for introductions as he frog-marched the kids into the cell) _rolls his eyes_. “Do you have any idea how much we don’t care?” He stabs one insanely long finger ceilingward. “One. Your registry violated the Mutant and Superhero Identity Act, which _expressly prohibits_ inclusion in a registry without written consent.”

"The wording of that law is very specific," Phil says tightly. "It doesn’t apply to werewolves."

"Really?" Stiles demands. "That’s what you’re going with? Exploiting a bureaucratic loophole to avoid basic human decency? That law is to protect nonhumans as much as humans. If you don’t see why it _should_ apply to werewolves, I legitimately weep for our nation’s future.”

"Stiles," the calm kid—Danny, Clint is pretty sure—says softly, and it snaps Stiles back to himself. He throws himself against his chair with a frustrated huff, but he rests his cuffed hands on the table and tangles his fingers with Danny’s as best he can. "Two," Danny takes over, eyes flickering between Stiles and Phil, "whoever designed the registry’s security protocols was a moron. I had full editing privileges in under an hour. And I found traces of at least five other hacks. All the networks I recognized were hunters.” From the way he spits the word, Clint figures he’s not talking about grouse-hunters.

"Which brings us to three," Stiles says, leaning forward. "We’ve raised these problems with SHIELD _repeatedly_ , and you’ve done nothing about it. In other words, you put people in danger and then refused to protect them from that danger. That you created. Danny and I fixed your mistake.” He shrugs. “You should be thanking us, really.” Jesus Christ, the stones on this kid.

"Good show?"

Years of practice keep Clint from jumping sky-high at Natasha’s voice in his ear. As it is, he’s able to shrug. “Watching my husband get owned by a teenager. Always good for a laugh.”

Natasha peers into the cell. Her eyebrow twitches. “Of course he is,” she says, eyes on Stiles. “That’s Claudia Nowitska’s son.”

Clint’s eyes widen. He never met the legendary administrator of SHIELD’s West Coast HQ, the woman they called ‘Fury’s third arm’ and allegedly made the best key lime pie in California, but he’s seen pictures, and now that Nat’s pointed it out, he can’t believe he missed the resemblance. Phil liked Claudia. Clint wonders how it’s influencing his approach to the kid, what Phil sees when he looks at him.

"What is your interest in this matter?" Phil is asking. "You’re not werewolves."

"Well, first off," Stiles snaps, "we’re also _not assholes_.” Danny snorts, but he doesn’t try to calm Stiles down this time. “Also, no, we’re not weres, but almost everyone we know is. Rack up our kind of numbers and you get fucking pissed when you find out the government’s secretly tracking your friends.”

Phil scrutinizes his prisoners for one drawn-out moment. “Wait here,” he says, then crosses to the door. His movements, as always, are sharp and economical, but Clint and Natasha track the subtle tics and twitches that reveal how frustrated he is by the conversation’s direction. He throws open the door and glares at them. “Barton, with me,” he barks. “Romanov, let Director Fury know we’re on our way, then make yourself scarce.”

"Sir." Natasha acknowledges the order with a graceful tilt of her head, already disappearing into the corridor’s practically nonexistent shadows.

Clint jogs to catch up with Phil, who’s blasting his way toward Fury’s office with fiery stride.

"Whatcha need from me, boss?" he asks. He brushes Phil’s hand as he falls in; a layer of tension slides of Phil’s shoulders and back.

"Moral support and impulse control," Phil says tersely.

Clint bites back a laugh. “‘S’what I’m known for,” he says, and flashes his smarmiest grin when Phil scowls at him.

*

"I _must_ have misheard you,” Fury snarls. He’s standing behind his desk while his agents sit in front of it, and he’s doing the hands-behind-the-back thing that’s supposed to be intimidating. Clint tries to remember the last time Nick Fury actually intimidated him. He can’t.

"It would be in SHIELD’s best interests to have these young men under our supervision, rather than running loose," Phil says calmly. His anger’s burned off, and now he’s the picture of unflappable rationality.

Fury closes his eye briefly. “If I recollect, that’s how we ended up with Hawkeye and Black Widow,” he says. Clint beams at him.

"It was the right call then, and it’s the right one now," Phil says.

"The Mahealani punk deleted our damn registry, Cheese!" Clint enjoys the whining note in Fury’s voice.

"Obliterated it completely," Phil agrees cheerily. Clint snickers. "Which says they’re talented, resourceful, and willing to do whatever they have to for the people they care about. Wouldn’t we benefit from having that loyalty on our side?" Voice going quiet and serious, Phil adds, "Not to mention that they have valid arguments."

Fury slumps, fists against the desktop. “Christ. I know.”

“We can set them up at West Coast HQ. Put them to work on protocols for supernatural creatures, like Frank and McCoy did for mutants.” Phil grins. “A Nowitska at WCHQ."

"Technically, the kid's a Stilinski."

Phil grimaces at him. "Come on. It’ll be like old times.”

Fury lifts his gaze to meet Phil’s. “You win. Bring the assholes in. But until they’re settled, they’re your responsibility. And for fuck’s sake, make sure Stark doesn’t get his hands on them.”

Phil’s mouth doesn’t move, but Clint sees the smile in his eyes. “Thank you, Director,” he says, nothing but obedience now that he has his way. He stands smoothly. “You won’t regret it.”

Fury snorts. “I regret it already. Claudia Nowitska’s son. Jesus.”

Phil looks genuinely surprised by Fury’s aggravation. “You loved Claudia.”

“ _You_ loved Claudia,” Fury counters. “She was a pain in my ass.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “And you loved her for it.”

Fury huffs, which is practically a confession. “Doesn’t mean I want her mouthy kid and his hacker boyfriend underfoot.”

Phil shrugs, unconcerned. “Too bad,” he says. “You’ve got them now.”


End file.
